


What am I Going to Do With You?

by RaiMagnolia



Series: Not on My Watch [1]
Category: Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them (Movies)
Genre: Abuse, Age Difference, BAMF!Graves, Forbidden Magic, M/M, Mary Lou Barebone is Her Own Warning, Period-Typical Racism, Protective Original Percival Graves, Slow Burn, Swearing Graves, Touch-Starved, references to Christian religion
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-05-25
Updated: 2018-06-15
Packaged: 2019-05-13 12:05:06
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 5,437
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14748530
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RaiMagnolia/pseuds/RaiMagnolia
Summary: Director Percival Graves has rarely ever felt lost.Relentlessly driven — his eyes having always been set on the goals ahead, is exactly how he landed his high-profile government job in his youthful 30s. He was the master of his own fate, Director of Magical Security, and right hand of the President of his nation...But looking at the boy who only recently learned to smile, and was soon about to die... ‘Lost’ is exactly how he felt.





	1. I Just Want to Go Home, Damn It.

**Author's Note:**

> This is my special take on the much unknown character of Percival Graves. He’s a little blunter in my imagination.

The brisk walk made sharp crunches under his feet, and if he wasn’t careful, he could slip on the darkening compacted ice. The dirty snow would seep into his custom threaded clothes, and the injury the sidewalk would give him might be more serious now due to his age. Nevertheless, his utter exhaustion made it hard to give a damn. 

 

Yes, the seasons have always been ones for high traffic in auror departments across the nation, but since M.A.C.U.S.A. Headquarters was based in the highly populated New York City, there were always more than the usual criminal activity. Usually the lonely snow covered nights inspired too much drinking to warm the bones, or the rambunctious holidays get then too merry in their celebrations.

Same monotonous routine; bust up establishments holding drunk wizards with wands in hand —or worse, in the damn street, and often stop them from mingling too much with the no-maj locals; all who were likely confused by staggering drunks during _their_ prohibition.

 

There were cases though, like the one they had tonight, that left multiple precincts in the city doing overtime. Such cases left Percival Graves, the Director of Magical Security, to have his rare presence required in the field to give orders. He was  only just leaving the Woolworth building at 1:02AM, and it was only because his boss had half-threatened him with a suspension.

Graves was agitated. It’s not like his boss had to stay at the office for as long as he did, but it all went back to a sort of pact the two overworking government officials had made many years ago when they were just trainees. As long as one of them stayed behind in their office, so would the other. But his cursedly loyal friend had a family, and knew that every minute added more weight to Graves’ guilt as being the sole reason Seraphina Picquery wasn’t at home with her child and husband for the bad start of a long needed holiday. Finally, he caved.

After vanishing his work to an unknown lovation of the building so he couldn’t take it home with him, Sera’s heels clicked happily until she disapparated, and Graves begrudgingly _allowed_ the paperwork of the New Year’s eve case to remain unfinished until he returned.

 

A gust of wind whipped viscously around him, but he was too lost in thought to do more than wrap his scarf around himself tighter as he continued to meditate on his thoughts. The earlier incident centered around a man who had a troubling history: either he couldn’t keep up with the creeping prices in the markets (maj and no-maj alike), or the rent of his apartment, or his loud, boisterous drinking habit that lead to several tenant complaints, but he wound up flat on his ass within his belongings surrounding him on the stoop of a residence.

His file says it was most likely all derived from his other bad habit: gambling.

 

Their perp apparently placed a bad bet at a no-maj “horse racing” facility in Houston, Texas, and believed that just because he lived in a separate world from his non-wizard debtors, he could just up and disappear if his horse lost. 

What 27-year old Benjamin Lousglass didn’t know, was that had he been keeping with his own world’s lawmaking, he would’ve read the headlines of MACUSA‘s growing notice of wizards and witches alike who thought to fuck with the non-magical world’s economy; and how even the no-majs were beginning to notice something wrong with their economy as well. Their world’s society had already been struggling with rising debts without mysterious people in strange clothes taking out loans from their banks, then never being heard from again. Graves as the Head Administrative Auror of not just New York, but the entire country, admits that perhaps there should have be stricter punishments put in place a few years prior. But it’s been the coldest fall and winter in a long while, the holiday seasons were coming, and everybody wants to go home to get some rest in warm beds. So little misdemeanors like these have usually been getting a slap on the wrist and a fine...whenever we get around to it.

But what made Mr. Lousglass’ case so special, is that this piss stain actually _disapparated_ in front of the non-wizards who came to collect what he owed.

 And out of all the 49 other states and over 15,000 other cities he could’ve been a listed resident of in order for Director Graves to delegate this problem, it just had to be _New York City, New York._

 

After putting together that Mr. Lousglass no longer had a permanent residence as of that afternoon, was heavily in debt, and had just lost another gamble, we contacted any known friends and family, and alerted nearby gambling stations of his Wanted status. However, he contacted none of these parties, nor went to any of these locations. 

 We caught a break when we received a patronus tip of his whereabouts at Central Park. Graves and aurors who work directly under him arrived on the scene along with otheir squad units. The scene was even worse than what the tip had described. Lousglass was was subdued and arrested from terrorizing everyone in the area who could only slip, slide, and stumble away from the sporadic cracks spreading across the popular skating pond. He had basically become one of those, ‘I ruined my own life and am homeless now, so I’ll take it out on everyone else by sending men, women, and children into a freezing watery grave along with me, because fuck you, that’s why.’

One of _those_ pity-party nutjobs.

 

A round up of near-frozen no-majs, a mass obliviation, and a thorough interrogation to be sure the perpetrator had acted alone, was only part of the stress.

The other problem was summed up in the name Seraphina Picquery.

She had only been president of the American Wizarding society for just a few years, and this no-good asshole caused the second mass obliviation scandal of the same year. Seriously? The bastard couldn’t have waited 24 hours so that the department could at _least_ put the attack on record for the start of 1927 -

Graves foot caught deceptively dark ice and uncomfortably slid before he could right himself, leaving his thoughts and newly focused on the sidewalk ahead. He could’ve just apparated to his apartment building, but he needed to blow off steam somehow- to be rid of all the frustrations the long hours, the press conference, internal briefings, rescuing survivors from frigid waters, and the moving hand of that infernal clock have weighed on him. Maybe he needed to consider...

 

The wind surrounding himviolently picked up speed, and out the corner of his eye, a black mass of shapeless magical energy rushed past opposite the street from him; swooping down against cars, warping street lamps, and leaving the crunching sound of distorted metal, and a make-shift blizzard of flurried snow in its wake.

 

He blinked.  
He really didn’t want to follow that. Graves looked ahead to where his apartment was just in sight, only a block away.  
He really, _really_ didn’t want to follow that.And in his current state, he’d probably manage to complete a spell once, before falling asleep mid-cast in the next.

 

The black winds ducked around the intersection corner behind him, heading back towards Broadway. Although apartment buildings obscured his view, he could hear the sounds of crunching metal, shattering windows, and what was possibly bricks and mortar being collided into and broken out of place. It took only took a few seconds of failing to persuade himself that he never saw it, before the irritated Director apparated across the street and rounded the corner after the aberration.

 Nothing but chaotic debri scattered across the view of the street ahead. He followed the destruction down to the next intersection, and to his right the same scene played out. The magical entity was indecipherable in body and shape, and seemed directionless, constantly shifting as if it could not tell what was in front of it. Just erratically slamming itself into every damn surface that carried a loud sound into the quiet winter night. His thoughts went to the Madam President; how much she’s going to not like seeing the change in the Woolworth’s clock hand.

As he trailed after the new source of his growing need for firewhiskey, he tried to think of the silver lining. Whatever it was, it was swift. As soon as there was a crunch and groan from another dented model-T, the aberration was gone— already halfway down the next road towards York Street. Where was this thing even heading? And would it pause long enough for him to cast a quick _silencio_ on it?

 

Graves decided he had observed it enough to plan an assault. It wasn’t professional to ‘maul and ask questions later’, but it also wasn’t professional to have a destructive force wreaking havoc in his city, and doing jack shit about it. Besides, whatever it was had to be some kind of curse or even a magical creature, and wasn’t a person. Wordless magic brought his wand out his coat pocket and into the familiar groove of his gloved hand.

 

The black mass was too far ahead of him and just went down an alleyway, but he knew he could catch up. Taking the risk, he apparated as close as he dared, spell on the tip of his tongue, wand-hand already in motion, he directed his magic towards…

 

...An empty, fucking dead-end.

 

 

Graves knew he was _tired_ , not looney, and sure, it’s been a couple of days since he’s last slept, and he may be…older in years, albeit, but he wasn’t that old, dammit— the _point_ is, it should have never gotten away from him!

Swearing an infinite stream in the languages his family had educated him in (probably not for this purpose), he was interrupted by a sneeze.

A loud sneeze. A loud sneeze on his left.

 His head whipped to the direction, expecting to see some damn hobo he’d have to obliviate— or likely interrogate seeing as they might be his only witness — and of course, that’s just how this Hell night would end — but all he found was a small mound of snow…shivering.

Casting a _silencio_ , the trained auror soundlessly approached the heap, wand at the ready. It made no acknowledgement, but its shivering continued. Graves bent down and used his left hand to brush away the white to reveal…black.

Black hair it seemed. He brushed away more, and more and saw more black. Damp clothes and shoes; both terribly ill-fitting for one of the coldest nights in the city’s history. Blue fingers gripped tighter into the worn clothes, and the mess of black hair never lifted to reveal a face. The boy shook even more violently. Graves was wary since the destructive entity could be anywhere, but still decided to put away his wand away before further interaction with the non-wizard.

 

“Boy,” he addressed the poor thing, “What are you doing out here on a night like this? Did you run away from home?”

The shaking body froze; finally, his head lifted.

More than the boy’s sunken and blue-tinted skin, snot running from his nose, or brows covered in thick frost, he’d remember those eyes that seemed darker than his tangled mess of hair, or damp clothes. They held an emotion that was blacker than any color. Graves had seen them before. They had once stared back at him in the mirror. The eyes of someone who had just given up on living.

 

Not on his watch. 

“You’re coming with me, son.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please give feedback, but also tell me how the _**fuck**_ to get rid of a toothache.  
>  No, I’m dead serious. Somethings going on with my wisdom tooth and my gums are extremely sore.


	2. Don’t Forsake Me. Don’t Forsake Me. Please, Please Do Not Forsake Me

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Poor Credence is in a delusional state from his high fever. Graves tries to help by warming him up with a nice hot shower.  
> Not all goes as planned.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Toothache is gone! Thank you again for all the lovely remedies!

 

 

 

It was his father.

 

 

His true father.

 

 

 

The Holy Father.

 

_“You’re coming with me, son.”_

He had seen his lost lamb in the snowy valley of the shadow of death, and saw that Credence had feared no evil. He was forgiven.

That was the only way to make sense of it. No one in his life had ever cared for him like this. This warmth, these gentle hands - holy hands - it was the only explanation. The Heavenly Father had forgiven him for what Ma had not. Earlier that night, the wounds on his palms were agitated and had been too dry from the cold drafts that flowed through church roof and gapped windows. His hands had not yet healed from his last punishing, and the wound cracked open when he stretched the platter of food across the table to his sister, Chastity. As he winced from pain, the dish slipped from his hand right onto the center of the table; breaking in half and the contents spilling from it. Ma rarely took out her fine dishes. Even though Credence had frozen in fear, the blood that flowed from the gash would not;  and it dripped onto the scattered vegetables on the table. Their New Year’s Eve dinner was ruined.

 

It was an omen, his Ma had proclaimed, shaking with a rage he had not seen in many years.

Credence had placed a curse on them, his Ma accused, and had welcomed the evil spirits that haunt him to damn them too for the whole year.

He begged forgiveness; he knew he could make it right.

That’s when Ma said the only way to rid the evil presence he had invited into their home was to exile them from the threshold of the church. The last thing he remembered were the church doors closing on him...and the youngest of the Barebones crying terribly, scratching at the arms Modesty encircled around her to keep her away.

 

He knew from the way he was shrouded in darkness for an immeasurable time, that he must have crossed the border. Now that he’s suddenly surrounded by so much light, soon he would be able to greet the angels of Heaven, and-

 

_“Young man? Son, are you alright?”_

 

Credence found that his eyes were actually closed, and it was difficult to open them… A throbbing pain surrounded his skull, and he felt cold and far too hot at the same time. He groaned, teeth alternating between chattering from chill or gritting from his brain feeling like it was boiling in the broth he prepared at his home, the ch… Oh… That that’s right.

 

_“Of course you’re not - my apologies. I know it’s tough; you’ve got a wicked fever. I didn’t even have to feel your head. You’re whole body’s burning up.”_

 

Credence tries to squint his eyes and see past the blinding glare that obscured all of his vision. Everything was just so…hazy. What did He say? Something about being wicked? Burning?

 

_“Do you mind if I help you take your shirt and trousers off before I turn the water on? I’ve already-”_

 

Of course. 

Wickedness. 

The Lord is referring to the scars of Credence’s misdeeds.

He despaired. Perhaps he was mistaken? Was he actually going to Hell?

He mourned.

Ma had been right. Ma had been right all along.

 

Credence solemnly nodded his head; pain wracking him with each shifting movement.

_Jeremiah 14:20-21; We acknowledge, O Lord, our wickedness, and the iniquity of our fathers: for we have sinned against thee. We acknowledge, O Lord, our wickedness, and the iniquity of our fathers: for we have sinned against thee._

_Do not abhor us, for thy name’s sake, do not disgrace the throne of thy glory: remember, break not thy covenant with us._

 

_“Alright, I’ll start with the shirt.”_

 

His head had leaned too far and pressed again something hard and smooth. The burning heat wouldn’t stop, but the cool surface eased it a little…

 

_“Now, lift your arms.”_

 

He tried, but he couldn’t. Nothing about him was working as it should. He could barely think alone…

 

_“You poor thing... I’ve got you.”_

 

He felt limb after limb lifting to remove his shirt; agrip from his hips lifted his whole body before the trousers were lowered enough to take off each pant leg.

 

Credence was drifting off to blackness when he felt rain fall on his face.

 

_“It takes a little while to warm up. Feel free to adjust it when it gets hot enough.”_

Credence didn’t know what the word adjust meant, but he had been too shy to ask the Lord God if He could use simpler words. Soon though, he could tell the Holy Spirit had left him from His fading footsteps…

 

…He has feet?

Credence supposes the Holy Ghost could have feet… But for what purpose? He had always assumed that if you were everywhere, and with people always, such a being wouldn’t be limited with mortal feet. Perhaps that being wasn’t the Almighty after all?

 

The rain’s temperature grew hot.

 

No, no, no. Credence prayed. He did not mean to doubt the Lord! He just meant perhaps it was one of His heavenly servants who had been giving him help. He -he meant no disrespect…

 

The temperature grew hotter all the same, and was burning the top layer of his skin as much as the overwhelming heat in his body scorched underneath it.

 

The Lord was raining down his righteous judgement upon him. He was going to be sent to Hell.

 

With the last of his strength he crossed his arms over his face and begged for forgiveness.

_Acts 8:22; Repent therefore of this thy wickedness, and pray God, if perhaps the… If perhaps…_

 

Credence broke down in sobs.

_He had forgotten the verse!_

 

_His Ma was right. Mama was right all along._

 

“Hey, pal. Just checking in. Is the temperature alright for y—What the _hell_ are you doing?”

The figure strides up to him and curses when the steaming water hits his body as he turned it off, his back taking the last of the scalding sprays, and shielding Credence from the onslaught.

 

The figure, wearing a soaked white dress shirt blending with the color of his skin, used a hand to push back his damp hair. Credence could finally see their face. It was the most beautiful he had ever seen. Their brows were thick and creased. His full lips made puffs of air in panted breaths before pressing into a tight, hard line. Droplets escaped from his hair, running down across his skin, and would fall off his jawline. Their eyes, an onyx he had only seen in display cases in passing, were piercing him with a stare. And the angel spoke thusly…

 

“ _Jesus_ fucking _Christ!_ Why didn’t you adjust the dial!?”


	3. Gentle Hands

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Poor Graves barely knows anything about how to take care of others, but it’s too late to think about that now. Thankfully, he’s not alone in the endeavor. After all, what is family for?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A cleaning lady at my job deemed it upon herself to throw away a box full of my online purchases, because she said - and I quote - “It had been under your desk for too long.” (Whatever the fuck that means— it was MY desk!) Well, jokes on her now, because she’s in hot water for having also thrown away my passport that was in the very same box. You don’t get to throw away my ID while I’m in a foreign country, bruh. SO — having to file a police report of a lost passport, contact my consulate for another passport, and having to prepare documents for another visa application, are all the reasons why this chapter was a week late.

 

“I honestly don’t know if he’s gonna make it now,” Percival grumbled low, half-talking aloud to himself, and half-not. He watched the spoon autonomously stir the contents poured from his moddest cauldron for small brews to a mug. Clockwise five times. Counterclockwise seven times. Repeat consecutively. Thrice. With no pause. 

 

“Oh, that is sure to be _your_ fault, Schmusebärchen,” his aunt unhelpfully called from the small dining table in the combined kitchen and living space. As if her constant critiquing of his potion-making wasn’t enough. 

 

Graves sent a swift glare to the portrait. “And how the hell do you figure that?”

 

“Language!” reprimanded his great-great uncle from the same small framed painting.

 

“Because,” his aunt continued, accustomed with her nephew’s foul mouth. “You don’t throw someone suffering from hypothermia a hot shower. Not unless you want them to die from it.”

Graves flinched. 

“It’s like throwing a starving wizard a banquet. It’s like giving a parched witch ocean water. It’s like -” 

“Spare me the analogies, Aunt Elke. What should I have done, then?”

“You’re supposed to warm them up gradually. Ideally, under many blankets accompanied with mild warming spells. Come now, Percinicus, I thought we _all_ had taught you better than that —”

 

“I’m half-Russian and was raised in upstate winters. Hypothermia has never been an issue or came up in any one of the family’s numerous lessons,” he rationalized, yet still irrationally miffed that there were still things in this world he was ignorant to. Remnant feelings from his youth of a time when he believed to know everything there was, he supposed. 

“Also, it’s Percival. Percinicus is your great nephew from your eldest brother’s bloodline. I’m the great-great nephew on your little brother’s side.”

 

“Heavens!” The portrait exclaimed feeling genuinely abashed.“My sincerest apologies, Schmusebärchen! You must know it’s not intentional -”

 

“I know, Auntie. Forget ‘bout it.” 

 

“Oh, thank you, Percy! And how is Percinicus, anyway?”

 

“Dead?” 

 

She rolls her eyes, “I know _that!_ You should visit the house more often; bring some news back! You’d see him there,” she began on a train of thought that lead to a destination he already knew. 

“Not this again — Listen, Tantchen? I’ll bring your frame over to the estate for the holiday so you can catch up with the family. Good?”

“Make sure it’s in no place dreary, Schatzi. There are too many dark spots.”

“Got it.”

“No corner placements, either.”

_“Got it,”_ exasperation laden in his tired voice. 

“And for witchcraft’s sake, don’t put me anywhere near portraits of my sister, Ethel -”

 

“You want to be with family or not, Tante? You can’t have both,” Graves says over his shoulder, escaping the kitchen area through the bedroom door. 

“He’s right, you know! You must put that old hunting incident aside one day, perle!…..knows she did not mean to shoot…” He could hear his great-great uncle’s voice trailing away with every foot gained in distance towards the bed; once he waved the door closed, there was nothing but quiet. Just him and the evidence of a broken international law lying in his bed. 

 

It was not a half hour ago when Graves went to the east side of the room and knocked on the bathroom door…and then knocked again.  

When no answer was given, he opened the door, throwing out a comment so his presence was known. The older wizard was fairly certain after helping his house guest into the shower that they wouldn’t feel too scandalized by Graves checking up on them. Though come to find out, a lack of propriety was the least of concerns…

 

Graves, truthfully, was more than a little shaken by the boy’s actions. Or, more so, inactions. His skin was harshly inflamed in areas the scalding water had fallen on him, and his face was either wet and flushed from the same source, or from squeezing out tears from the pain. Yet when questioned about what had happened, why he didn’t do anything, or even if he could hear anything Graves was saying, he was largely unresponsive; not offering an explanation while swaying slightly side to side. All the Director could get from him was the no-maj’s wide eyes sweeping over his face as if it were his first time seeing a human being. Didn’t take a healer’s experience to know that wasn’t good. 

Graves pinched the bridge of his nose and sighed. He was beginning to realize that he would need to stave off sleep a while longer. 

 

Having rolled up his sleeves, he took the bath towel and sprayed cool water on it; then he sets to work. Graves sat on the flat rim of the tub and carefully started to dab the reddened areas of the young man beside him. When their body flinched away, Graves just used his free hand to press their head against his side in comfort. His fingers massaged the boy’s scalp, then they slid down until they settled on the side of his neck, with his thumb tucked behind his ear, rubbing gentle circles. Graves worked mostly subconsciously, having enough experience during war time to not find awkwardness in the situation or comforting guestures. With limited hands of healers in the midst of some deployed battles in Europe, any were welcomed from men like Graves who knew basic first aid and worked well on the fly. Sometimes quite literally. Thus,  an injured male body that needed medical attention was a sight he was all too well accustomed to.  

He slicked the boy’s hair back and dabbed his head, whispering magic to his hands so they may return the warming cloth to cool temperatures once more. He figured he was making some progress from the sighing sound the younger man gave, and their closed eyes. With each press of the cloth, the boy pressed further into Graves. His hair left a downward damp trail from the side of the auror’s white dress shirt to black trousers, until his head lay flush against Graves’ lap. 

 

That’s when Graves saw it. 

Pale pink lines scouring across the skin of his back more chaotic than a map of the city. Some welts were upraised with a yellow tinge from puss; some still angry with traces of dried blood. The rest were numerous and faint; a grotesque historical record of this poor boy’s past. Graves took note of it all, the estimated number, the angle of each placement, length and width, but said nothing. The skin jumped from the cloth hitting a fresh mark, but no sound or complaint came from the young man. Graves took cues though, and methodically avoided those areas in his ministrations. He knew he needed to move him to the bed and under covers soon, and he had finished cooling down the most damaged areas over his arms, shoulders and chest. 

He pushed a hand to the boy’s forehead. His fever was getting worse. There was no point in ridding the dirt and from his skin and knots from his nest of hair now that his skin was likely too sensitive for scrubbing, but at the very least he could dry it. Graves would also help along the healing process of the burns once his guest had fallen asleep.   
Because Mercy forbid a fever driven no-maj sees wandless magic while conscious. Graves rolled his eyes. Even the Director of Magical Security had to admit the American Statute of Secrecy was at times ridiculous compared to its British counterpart. And he’s supposed to be the one who _enforces_ it. 

 

Graves positioned an arm under the legs, and one wrapped under the shoulders, and lifted to a stand. Even when his body was brought out of the bathroom and brought into the bedroom, the young no-maj remained unresponsive. He only let out a pained groan from when the wizard mistakenly placed him on his back. Graves cursed. He should’ve known this boy must have always slept on either his front or side his whole life; so he shifted their body onto their stomach. Afterwards, he went to the kitchen, and under his aunt and uncle’s watchful eyes, brewed a special blend of the potions Fever Reduction, Dreamless Sleep, and a dash of plain, old brandy. An old family recipe. 

He places the ceramic mug brought from the kitchen down on the bedside table, so that he could wipe away sweat from  the furrowed brow on a face twisted in anguish. Statute be damned, Graves accio’d his wand on the dresser to hand and levitated the potion out of the cup. He then uses a thumb to part lips and teeth, until his wand hand could softly descend the potion past. Now he moves his hand to the boy’s throat to massage it into swallowing. It took a few minutes of repeating this process before the mug was finally empty. 

 

The wizard used a couple of spells to set up a system that had the cloth used earlier autonomously lower itself into a bowl of perpetually fresh, cool water, then ring itself out, and reapply to the boy’s head every five minutes. Finally…he could sleep. 

“Hey, Aunt Elke…” the overworked, under-slept, damn tired employee of M.A.C.U.S.A. tried and dialed to bite the yawn. “Could you please be a doll and look after him?”

His question was directed at another portrait, one of his Great-Great Aunt Elke in her younger years that hung opposite the bed, high towards the ceiling. 

The young woman in the faded picture nodded demurely, preferring nonverbal forms of communication. A stark contrast to her older, more free self pictured in the kitchen. Her husband was a kind man for freeing her from that restrictive household she had been born into. She could finally travel the world as she’d always dreamed; and her true self had bloomed from it. 

 

Before leaving to pass out on the living room sofa, Graves had one last question. “Son? You well enough to answer something for me?”

A groaning sound was all he got in response.

 

“You got a name?”

Another groan.

 

“My boy, please, give me a name. I can’t find where you came from without a name.” The location spell requires it.

 

“I…Cree…”

“Cree…?”

 

“Perhaps, Credence?” A timid voice asked.

 

Graves glanced at the portrait high on the wall, but he only saw his aunt swiftly dodge out of sight underneath the side of the gold encrusted frame. “It’s quite alright, Tantchen. I think that’s a very bright suggestion. Thank you for contributing,” Graves said coaxingly to bring the woman back from hiding behind the frame, until the top of her hair and face peeked out into view. “Are we right, then,” his attentions shift back to the bed, “Your name’s Credence?”

 

He seemed to struggle with it, and blinked hard a few times, but his little black eyes were visibly peering up directly at Graves. The strongest response gotten out of him all night.

 

“Good enough.”

Graves pulls the duvet further over the Credence’s body — and remembers in time to place it gingerly over the back of his shoulders. “I don’t want to irritate the wounds on your back, but you should stay covered.”

The silent eyes peered at him still behind the curtain strands of hair. He was shivering; presumably from the internal warfare over his body’s temperature.

 

Graves bends on one knee so he can look into Credence’s eyes and capture his full attention. A comforting hand is put onto Credence’s cheek, while smoothly sliding his wand hand underneath the pillows beneath his head, “Credence, it’s time for you to rest.”

Instantly, the eyes closed with the wand’s silent command. Credence was asleep.

Right on time, the washcloth on his forehead drifted away to refresh itself in the bowl at the foot of the bed, then positioned itself back where it belonged.

Once the director pulled his hand free from under the pillow, he used a warming charm to dry the boy’s hair and the pillow he laid on. He adds a few flicks of his wand to clean the more severe lashes on Credence’s back. He left the rest to heal themselves so nothing would seem amiss once Credence returned to consciousness. Next were the burns, a slightly more difficult dilemma. The auror was no healer, and luckily most were first degree, but his forearms would require a steady wand hanging over the area for an extended time. He preferred this method as to using wandless magic; the wand serves as a channel to concentrate a witch’s or wizard’s spells, which in turn, adds strength to them. He knew he couldn’t remove the violent lines over the flesh of Credence’s back, but he felt personal responsibility for the burns. He should’ve never left him alone in there and wishes to leave no physical memory of the incident.

All that remained was checking the strengths of the wards placed on his humble government housing apartment. They were standard, and meant for the protection of homes of high government officials from potential outside threats, but he modified them a little. This way nothing could enter or _leave_ without his say-so. A necessary precaution to take when one is housing living, breathing evidence that leads to a dismissal and probable jail time. 

Graves practically dragged himself to the next room over. He couldn’t even remember making it to the sofa, or whether he took off his office shirt, or even his shoes. Only the heavenly press of his head against a velvet pillow, and the comfort of knowing he neither needed fire whiskey or potion to sleep soundly tonight…

 

 

“What of the dark magic you mentioned earlier, dear boy?” His great-great uncle suddenly asked from the table, shocking Graves out of a half-asleep state.

 

“It was a magical creature. One that’s gonna have,” he yawned, “to wait until tomorrow..”

 

“But —” his aunt now began.

 

“Say something else, and I’m putting that frame directly in front of your sister Ethel’s the entire holiday.”

 

 

 

 

 

Quiet.

 

 

Finally.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> German (with help from my sister):  
> Tante- Aunt  
> Tantchen- Auntie  
> Schmusebärchen- I wanted a German nickname that meant little bear, but the closest I got was “cuddly bear”  
> Schatzi- little treasure  
> Perle- my pearl


End file.
